


Afterimage

by WrithingBeneathYou



Category: Naruto
Genre: Blind!Tobirama, Day 2, M/M, MadaTobi Week 2019, warning for graphic war wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-12 02:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20129152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: The last thing Tobirama sees is the tail end of a whip comprised entirely of fire.It finds a home beneath his skin and all he knows is the sound of his own scream.MadaTobi Week 2019Day 2: August 5th – Blind Tobirama //Growing old together





	Afterimage

The last thing Tobirama sees is the tail end of a whip comprised entirely of fire.

It finds a home beneath his skin and all he knows is the sound of his own scream.

It’s the kind of agony that pierces soul-deep. Nerves—damaged and alight—transmit pain so vibrant it smothers out all other input. There’s no room for calculation or fear. Instinct takes over and he collapses to the ground, katana fallen and forgotten.

Kami save him, even as a shinobi, he’s never experienced anything so horrifying as clawing at the ground in sudden darkness. Another shriek is torn from his already raw throat, long and sustained.

His chest aches with it. His heart pounds.

With a violent twist, he slams onto his back, gets his heels under him, and arches his hips into the air. There’s no reasoning for his behavior other than an inherent need to escape the pain. Still, he can’t stop. Contorting only manages to knock his happuri askew, tearing off melted skin and slag along with it.

Tobirama clutches at the raw flesh where his brow oozes between his fingers. He kicks the ground and rolls in paroxysms, pressing his filthy palms into the wound, but there’s no reprieve. The world is reduced to one bright afterimage that won’t seem to fade and damage so severe he can feel the roiling effects of it in his bowls.

Again, he screams through grit teeth.

It takes an indiscernible amount of time for his voice to fail him completely—for his body to still. He curls around his hurt and shakes in the grass, skin clammy beneath the burial shroud of his armor. His distress is no less acute, but the initial shock of it begins to recede in increments as adrenaline takes hold.

Even if he were to survive this, he’s as good as dead. No matter what his Anija would claim, they both know there’s no place in the clan for a weapon that can’t be wielded.

How prudent of Izuna to cull him so effectively.

A hesitant voice wraps around the shape of Tobirama’s name, piercing through the haze as skillfully as a kunai.

“T-Tobirama?” Not ‘Demon’. Not ‘Senju’.

He knows that rich tenor. He knows it as intimately as the whip crack of a Katon jutsu. Though blinded, his mind provides a strange phantom image of his rival, brow pinched and lips slack in what looks like concern, but shouldn’t be. The warmth of a glove settles where ruptured blisters make his neck tacky with fluid.

Sage, it hurts. Everything hurts.

And he’ll return that searing agony in triplicate before he succumbs to the shinigami.

Moisture for a jutsu collects slowly as he battles the stiffness in his knuckles. At the first successful hand-sign, Izuna inhales sharply and disengages. Tobirama can feel him backpedal from the crush of gathering chakra. Not that it will save him.

This will be Tobirama’s swan song. Uchiha Madara will understand why, even if Anija won’t.

He channels every last scrap of chakra he has into a water dragon so great and with such might that its shadow houses the ocean itself. It’s an avenging storm, a torrent of need driven by the lifeblood that continues to ooze from his ruined eyes.

The howl of its descent is not unlike the wolf yokai Touka courts as summons. It’s a small comfort to know that he will die with a sustained note of family ringing in his ears.

The gale grows louder, closer, shakes the earth with its power.

Then, nothing. Everything stops.

Death is far more peaceful than Tobirama would have imagined. Silent, and no less dark than living was in the end. The agony, though—there’s no respite from the overwhelming sensation that feels like burning all over again. He would have thought to have found a reprieve from that at least.

He whimpers and curls back into himself, surprised to note grass beneath his cheek and the sudden influx of sound once more.

It bleeds in on the coattails of a crackling that is oddly reminiscent of crepitus—amplified as if projected from a massive skeleton.

Suddenly, there’s a deep baritone calling down from above.

“Izuna! Are you alright?” Madara asks quickly. The note of panic is obvious.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. But, the Senju…” Izuna’s voice trails off into uncertainty.

Silence.

A substantial thud slams next to Tobirama’s side, so near he flinches.

Dual vices wrap around his wrists and pull his hands away from his ruined face. Even the minor relief of pressure on his wounds is taken from him. If he could speak, he would beg for release. If he could sob, he would fill the Naka.

What he is gifted instead is a soft hiss and an even softer “fuck.”

Izuna shifts closer. “I thought he was going to dodge! He’s a right bastard, but, his eyes, Nii-san…You know I would never purposefully do something like _that_,” he says, imbuing the word with enough revulsion to make it nearly palpable.

“Can you fix it?”

Oddly enough, his question isn’t directed towards Madara.

The slap of approaching sandals stops abruptly and there’s the heavy impact of knees on either side of Tobirama’s head. Each crack of dried grass speaks to his own breaking.

“I don’t know,” his brother says, uncharacteristically subdued.

Tobirama tries to call out to him—in gratitude, in hope of that final release, he’s not sure. But his throat is too raw and his resolve too weakened. A strangled wheeze is all he manages.

“It’s okay, Tobi. Anija’s here,” Hashirama croons as he strokes his hair. Every pass of fingers brings with it the renewed scent of copper and ash. Slowly building beneath his skin, the comforting buzz of Iryo Ninjutsu sweeps away much of the pain—batters it away with more might than finesse. There are still phantom pangs, but nothing verging on the insurmountable agony that robbed him of his faculties.

Flesh knits together. Blood and serous fluid reabsorb. Dirt oozes out from where Tobirama had rubbed it deep into his burns and sprinkles to the ground.

He tries to reach up to take hold of his brother’s hands, but Madara holds him firm.

Another long stretch of collectively held breath ends with a sigh. The warm glow of healing chakra cuts off abruptly.

“That’s all I can do,” Hashirama admits.

Though the pain is gone, the darkness remains. Tobirama knows without having to be told that his life as a shinobi has ended. Izuna triumphed even if it wasn’t necessarily his intent.

“What do you mean ‘that’s all you can do’?” Izuna cries out from a few paces away. He rapidly moves towards them and Tobirama can’t help but try to push back. As exhausted and hemmed in as he is, he barely even disturbs the dirt with his attempt.

“I thought you were the ‘God of Shinobi’,” Izuna continues. It’s been a long time since Tobirama has heard fear in him. “Try harder! It’s his _eyes,_ you son of a bitch. His eyes!”

“And whose fault is that? If you can’t be civil, be quiet,” Madara snaps, shifting his weight such that his thigh settles against Tobirama’s bent knees. Thick hair brushes across the backs of his hands, smelling like ozone and petrichor.

Izuna fails to heed the obvious warning. “He should have been fast enough! He’s always faster than I am. Why the fuck didn’t he move in time? Why the fuck aren’t you _fixing him_?”

Each word falls like a sword, most of them aimed inward despite his accusations. Luckily, Madara applies a tourniquet to staunch the flow of vitriol that threatens to drive Izuna to action.

“Shut-up, Otouto!” he thunders, the power of his chakra rising up around them and making the grass whip violently against Tobirama’s face.

He winces and curls up close to Madara’s thigh to shield himself. All he wants is an end to this debacle—to wake up on his futon and write everything off as a particularly unpalatable fever dream.

But he’s never been afforded the Sage’s favor.

The air prickles with static electricity as Izuna’s lightning nature builds, then slowly dissipates. There’s a thump as he sits down with little poise and crosses his arms. “Fine.”

Tempers banked, Madara turns back to where Hashirama kneels with none of his typical freneticism.

“Let me take him. My clan has techniques for rehabilitation and accommodation specifically for this kind of injury. Grant me the opportunity to make amends and you’ll have your peace accord,” Madara states with no small amount of sincerity.

“You would ask me to lose my last brother?” Hashirama asks, ice seeping into every word.

The firm grip on Tobirama’s wrist tightens. “Not permanently. And if left like this, Tobirama is already lost. No man deserves to have their eyes taken from them. My people can give him back the sight my brother took, and with the Senju heir housed in our compound, the elders will consider his presence leverage enough to attempt an armistice agreement. Please, Hashirama, this is our chance. Let me do this.”

“Madara, my friend,” Hashirama begins, only to stop himself. Tobirama listens to the nasally inhale and pictures his brother—sitting seiza with his chin tilted towards the sun, a slight furrow on his brow.

Despite his affected reluctance, Tobirama knows that the offering of peace outweighs the worth of one life in his brother’s regard. Brother or not. Too, Madara, for all his bluster is a perceptive man. Like this, Tobirama is essentially a martyr—he can hear the calls for spilled blood already. Given succor and rehabilitation by the Uchiha, though, would make for a powerful message of mercy. 

There’s only one viable option. By agreeing, he will spare Hashirama the anguish of admitting the truth of his priorities.

Tobirama nods.

Even without a spark of chakra left to him, he can still feel the weight of their focus.

“Tobi?” Hashirama asks, hesitant.

Once again, Tobirama nods. “I. Accept,” he chokes out, more air than sound. Let this idiotic war end. Let his sacrifice be the foundation of his brother’s dream.

Let there finally be meaning to this generation’s conflict.

Madara’s hands fall slack on his wrists and Tobirama takes them up to neatly seal their pact against his lips.


End file.
